


Gregory's Coffee

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16767874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: Running a coffee shop was one thing; he wasn’t going to sink to naming it with bad puns. He’d thought about calling it Lestrade’s – but that sounded like a French bakery. Far too fancy for a shop that sold tea, coffee and the occasional toastie.  “Gregory’s Coffee” was the best name he could come up with.





	Gregory's Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://out-there-tmblr.tumblr.com/post/180247236838/rbioch-ships-mystrade-duchesscloverly-give-me). Duchesscloverly asked for Mystrade coffee shop AUs, and how could I refuse?
> 
> (Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.)

It’s not the most imaginative name, but there was a Gregg’s down the street and “Gregory’s Coffee” had been the best name he could think up. Running a coffee shop was one thing; he wasn’t going to sink to naming it with bad puns. He’d thought about calling it Lestrade’s – but that sounded like a French bakery. Far too fancy for a shop that sold tea, coffee and the occasional toastie.

It was an unassuming shop that mostly sold to men and women in fancy suits, rushing around Whitehall. Not the suburb Greg would have picked, but Sherlock found the shop at a discount rent. (Guilt, Greg thinks. He’d got shot following one of Sherlock’s hunches – sorry, deductions – and even though it was Sherlock’s fast reactions that made the wound debilitating rather than lethal, he still seemed guilty about it.)

The shop does a steady trade. Enough to cover rent and salaries, and give Greg a little to set aside for a rainy day fund. More importantly, it keeps him busy. If he’s not serving coffee to queues of interchangeable faces in suits, he’s ordering stock or paying bills or rostering staff or reporting VAT. There’s a never-ending list of paperwork and cleaning, and it doesn’t leave him much time left to brood over his divorce or the ugly scar across his left side.

“Gregory,” someone says after ordering tea. “It’s an unusual name.”

Greg shrugs. “Not really,” he says, then, “Four pounds twenty.”

The man gives him a fiver. “It’s an unusual name for a cafe.”

Greg looks up then. He usually doesn’t bother. The best part of this job is that he doesn’t have to look at people and wonder what they’re hiding, and if they're lying to his face. All he has to do is ring up the order and make sure the right drink gets made. “Better than Lestrade’s.”

The man – tall, strong nose, weak chin, sharp grey eyes – blinks twice. “Gregory Lestrade,” he says. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“For what?”

“Sherlock.” His eyes flicker down as if he knows exactly where Greg was shot.

Greg gives the man back his change, noticing the fine black leather of his gloves. “Sherlock saved my life. Not the other way around.”

“I disagree. Since the incident, Sherlock has stayed clean.” There’s a weight to the way he says _clean_ , an emphasis Greg’s heard from family members and ex-junkies.

Sherlock is a brilliant, messed-up kid – late twenties, yes, but still a kid – and he talks a lot when he’s high. “You’re the mysterious older brother? Running the world and keeping tabs on everything Sherlock does?”

He gets another blink and then the tiniest quirk of soft lips. Amusement softens his face, makes Greg see the five-year-old kid he must have been: precocious and bright, fascinated and thrilled by the world. “One of those is true, yes. Mycroft Holmes. If there’s anything I can do for you…”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” Mycroft replies, too serious, once again such a sensible adult.

“Let’s call it even.” Without Sherlock, that bullet would have gone through a lung and nicked his heart. Greg’s seen the trajectory projections. He also knows life’s too short to dilly-dally; best to seize opportunities when you find them. “But if you’re free Friday night…”

“I am, yes.”

“Want to go to dinner with me?”

Mycroft pulls himself back to his full height, ducks his chin in. There’s a small confused crease between his brows. “Dinner? As in a romantic…” He seems lost for words.

“A date, yeah.” Greg smiles hopefully and ignores the short queue forming behind Mycroft. They can wait or they can go to the Cafe Nero round the corner. He's in the middle of something here. “You and me.”

Mycroft looks him up and down, so much like Sherlock that Greg almost laughs at the similarity. “This Friday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“You don’t have my address.” Then Greg thinks of something else. “You don’t have my phone number.”

“Not a problem,” Mycroft replies with the kind of confidence that Greg finds irresistible.


End file.
